


in the space between intention and action

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Millennial Stereotypes, Mind Control, human puppet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Queering the cell phone discourse/mind control kink binary.





	in the space between intention and action

You turn on your new smartphone. Sit on the couch to set it up. Run through the tutorial and show it what your fingers feel like. You hit the icon for the browser. You type in a url. You load the page. You notice that you don’t remember learning the url. You notice that you don’t remember deciding to visit the site. You can’t stop. You watch your fingers. You watch yourself write a glowing review. It’s so much better than an iPhone. It’s so much better than an Android. You aren’t the one choosing the words.

You want to scream for help. You go to your room. You finish packing. You don’t know if these are the clothes you would choose to bring. You don’t really care. It’s sort of relaxing. You would’ve been packing anyway. You’ll leave home at the end of the month. You wonder if your new cell phone overlord will let you study or make any new friends while you’re in college.

You don’t really like to think of years and years like this.

Anyway this is what you were going to do anyway. Packing for college isn’t something you need to be hypnotized into doing. You were just imagining things earlier. It’s fine.

You want to take a fancy scented bubble bath to calm down. You decide not to do that until you finish packing. Not that you’re afraid to find you can’t stop or anything. You’re in control of yourself. You just want to get this done first. You finish. You go and get a towel and set it down in the bathroom. You run some water. You check the temperature. You adjust the hot water. You check the temperature again. You put the plug in the drain. You watch the water run. You want to scream about what happened earlier but you can’t. That’s probably because you’re afraid of looking really dumb. Look at you doing everything you wanted to do today. Nothing is seriously wrong. Even if you were being mind-controlled it was probably just to write that review. They don’t actually care how you bathe or what you wear at school. That doesn’t affect the company’s profits so they really do not care. It’s fine. It’s a dirty rotten unethical marketing tactic but they’re not going to replace you. They’re not, like, yeerks.

You toss some bath beads in and some fancy soap and stir it up so it really bubbles. You strip. You feel a little weird stripping. Not that there’s anyone watching you. It’s just a feeling. You get in the bath. It’s so nice and relaxing. Just what you need to stop worrying about how you totally imagined you were being mind-controlled by your cell phone earlier. Haven’t you, like, read about that? Isn’t thinking someone else is the one making you do things some kind of, like, delusion? It’s supposed to be right up there with thinking the FBI is beaming messages to you through the fillings in your teeth, right? But you don’t really like thinking about that either. Going crazy is more likely but you wouldn’t really like it better. You’ll just not think about it.

You pick up your mom’s razor. You never shave. You don’t believe in changing things about your body to make other people happy. It’s yours. Your mom thinks you should get your ears pierced but you won’t. Everyone says you should shave but you won’t. Your dad says never to get any tattoos but you’re already designing one to get while you’re away. It’s your body and you own it. It’s the only thing you’re really really sure is yours.

You really have no idea why your hand is holding the razor.

You have no idea why you lift up your other arm.

You try to throw it away but you can’t. You try to shout for help but you can’t. It shaves under your arms and no one will ever have any sympathy, everyone will say you should’ve done that anyway. Your legs next. The rough awkward stubble under your arms chafes. You’re not good at this. You never learned. You don’t really wish you had, but it would make more comfortable now. Sort of.

The blades pass smoothly over your skin. Your hands are steady. Your hands are not yours. You try to steady your breathing. Your body is not yours. You can’t sob. You can’t scream. No one would even side with you. All you’ve been forced to do is stop being a disgusting hairy sasquatch, they’ll say, there’s no reason to be upset about that.

It forces your knees apart. Your breath catches. Smooth strokes. Your pubic hair floats away in the bath. You don’t want blades there. You know it’s a safety razor but you still don’t want blades there. You do not want whoever cursed your fucking cell phone to touch you there. You try to scream. You still can’t scream.

It rinses the razor in the bathwater and makes you set it down. It washes your hair. Its hands, that used to be your hands, rake your scalp with your nails and run your hair between your fingers.

It drains the bath. Maybe you drain the bath. You’re not sure. You stand up. It stands up. Something like that. Your body stands up. The body that was yours stands up. Yes, that’s right. The body that was yours.

You try to pick up the soap from the bathroom sink and use it like chalk to write on the mirror.

You can’t pick up the soap.

The hand that was yours this morning cleans the mirror. It makes you admire yourself. It makes the face that used to be yours leer at the body that used to be yours in the mirror.

You dry off. You’re not sure if it lets you or just agrees with you. Maybe it’s touching you through the towel. Touching you all over. You shiver. It lets you sob once. It doesn’t let you do it twice. It dresses you. You wander into the kitchen looking for some kind of comfort food. Your hand picks up an avocado from the counter. Your other hand opens the silverware drawer and takes out a knife. You cut the avocado in half. Guacamole? Maybe. There’s salsa in the fridge. You guess that’s what you’re making. You dump the avocado flesh in a bowl and squeeze half a lime onto it. You put a couple slices of bread in the toaster. Get the green onions out of the fridge. Cut them finely into the avocado. Shake in some salt. Grind in some pepper. Mash it all together. The bread comes out of the toaster. You spread the avocado on your toast.

Your mom comes into the kitchen too. “Gave up on your paleo diet, huh?”

No, you want to say, no no no no no, no, no, no it’s not you it’s not you it’s not you it’s not

“I dunno, I guess I just kinda missed bread, you know?”

“Looks like you’ve got more avocado than bread.” Smiling, she gets out another couple slices of bread and starts them toasting. “Mind if I have some?”

(help help help no no no help please help no no no no help please)

“Sure, help yourself!”

“Thanks!”

“No problem.” You grin. You lean against the counter. It puts food in your mouth that’s not on your diet and makes you chew and swallow. You feel sick. “Hey, I read this ridiculous thinkpiece about how millennials are all brainwashed by our smartphones, it’s, like, so dumb.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother with those people, honestly, they don’t know anything. You’re not brainwashed, you’re my wonderful daughter.”

(no no no no no no no no)

“Ha. Yeah. Like that.”


End file.
